Page 95 of Sweet Dreams

"You were amazing, Avery," he murmurs softly. "Ma completely fell in love with you. I haven't seen her that happy in years."

"I fell in love with her too," I say honestly. Reaching up, I rest my hands flat against his broad, muscular chest. His heart is beating steady and strong beneath my palms. "Your family is beautiful, Gid. Thank you for letting me be a part of it."

Gideon’s jaw tightens, a sudden, heavy wave of intense desire flaring in his eyes. He reaches out, his massive hands sliding around my waist, pulling me against his hard body. He leans down, his breath brushing against my lips. "Come inside with me," he whispers, his voice a rough, gravelly command. "Stay the night in my cottage, babe. I don't want you to go. I want you in my bed."

Electric heat rushes straight down my spine. I look up into his dark gaze, my fingers tightening in the fabric of his shirt before sliding lower to playfully cup his ass. "Okay," I whisper. A helpless smile breaks across my face. "Let's go inside, Gid."

Chapter twelve

Avery

The steady click of the wall clock is beginning to sound like a countdown timer.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

I blink hard, trying to clear the gritty, gross sensation from my eyes. The downstairs studio of Beauty and the Boutique is silent, save for that fucking clock and the low, heavy hum of the steam iron resting on its silicon pad. It is twenty minutes past midnight. Outside the glass windows, Main Street is dark. The majority of small-town Foggy Basin having gone to sleep hours ago.

But I’m wide awake, running on a dangerous combination of iced coffee, panic, and adrenaline.

Scott Woods arrives in exactly nine days.

"Avery, darling, you need to take a break," Ezra says, appearing in front of me.

I look up from the cutting table. Ezra is leaning against the pillar on the opposite side of the studio, holding a ceramic mug. Unlike me, he doesn't look like a manic hot mess. His stylish romper is still wrinkle free, and his hair is perfectly styled. How the hell can he be so calm this close to the deadline?

"Don’t have time for a break," I say, my voice rough. I run a hand through my messy dark hair, tugging at the strands in frustration. "Look at this bias-cut hem. Just look at it. The silk is rippling."

I point a finger down at the amber gown pinned to the central cutting island. It’s the centerpiece of our ‘Honey & Harvest’ collection. The fluid, heavy silk is supposed to drape into a flawless, liquid silhouette, anchored at the very bottom by the structural, architectural border created by Gideon's beeswax.

But right now, the hem looks mismatched. Kind of. Fuck, are my eyes starting to cross? Maybe I do need a break.

"The wax is cooling too fast," I explain, my words rushing out in a frantic spiral. "By the time I draw the brush from the wax pot to the fabric, the temperature drops just enough to make the wax clump instead of absorbing evenly into the silk fibers. It's pulling the grain line. When Scott steps into this shop, the very first thing his hyper-critical eyes will lock onto is this exact ripple. He’ll call it amateur, and say I lost my edge the second I left Olivia Cove."

Ezra sets his tea mug down on a side table. He walks over to my side of the island with a soft smile on his face. He doesn't look at the ripple with panic like I do. God, how does he do that? Instead, he places his hands flat on the table, leaning down to inspect the fabric with a calm, practiced eye.

"Scott Woods is a miserable man who builds his entire identity on tearing down the joy of others," Ezra says softly, squeezing my arm in reassurance. "But he isn’t a fool. He will see exactly what I see right now."

"A mess?" I whisper, the sting of exhaustion finally bringing a hot, frustrated wave of tears to the backs of my eyes.

"No," Ezra says firmly. He turns his head, locking his eyes onto mine. "A masterpiece. Avery, look at the silhouette of this jacket on the mannequin behind you. Look at the structured collars of the vests. You have taken raw materials from this valley and engineered a completely new textile language. You didn't just design clothes for this launch; you created an entire concept."

He reaches out, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder, squeezing tightly. "I have been running this boutique for a long time," Ezra continues. "And before you got here, I was stuck. I was designing standard, beautiful city couture because it was safe. It was what I knew. What I used to love. But when you brought your vision into this studio and pitched the wax-resist technique and pushed us to capture the soul of Foggy Basin—you breathed life back into my work. I’m incredibly grateful to be working with you. You are my equal partner in this, and whatever Scott writes, it cannot change the fact that this collection is the finest work either of us has ever produced."

A tear finally slips down my cheek, thick and hot. I wipe it away quickly with the back of my hand, my throat tight with emotion. "Thank you, Ezra. That... that means a lot. Truly."

"Good," Ezra smiles, patting my shoulder before stepping back toward the stairs. "Now, I’m going home before Olly storms in here and tosses me over his shoulder. I suggest you do the same. Everything will still be here tomorrow morning."

"I just want to try one more test strip," I say, offering him a tired, appreciative smile. "I'll head to bed soon."

"Don't make me call Gideon and have him carry you upstairs," Ezra warns playfully before walking out.

The studio plunges back into silence. Usually, I have my music playing while I design, but lately, I’ve needed the silence to focus. I let out a long breath, staring down at the silk. My creative brain is hitting a wall. I plug the electric wax pot back in, waiting for a fresh block of refined sunflower wax to melt down, but my eyes are blinking slowly from fatigue. I try to hold a scrap piece of silk taut against the island, but without a second pair of hands to maintain the tension, the fabric shifts, causing the hot wax to smear unevenly.

“Fuck,” I say out loud as I drop the brush onto the tray and place my head into my hands. The pressure feels like a physical weight crushing my ribs. I’m so fucking tired.

The soft, heavy click of the studio’s back door opening makes me jump.